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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781933">Bloody Cracked Glasses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, I'm sad about the clown movie, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, dream - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:14:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781933</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>My glasses sat on the bedside table of the shitty motel. Reminding me of all my failures. They mocked me in a way, etched with the memory of all of whom I’ve lost; The blood of whom I’ve lost once dug deep into the cracks of an identical pair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bloody Cracked Glasses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sorry if this is shit it's my first fic. Hope you enjoy anyway!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My glasses sat on the bedside table of the shitty motel. Reminding me of all my failures. They mocked me in a way, etched with the memory of all of whom I’ve lost; The blood of whom I’ve lost once dug deep into the cracks of an identical pair. My eyes drift shut and all I can think is, where did I go wrong? </p><p>Cracked glasses sat on my nose while a red faced Eddie cleaned the road burn on my hands and legs. I seemed to have been thrown to the ground; Typical. He’s saying something, but the memory is so faded all I can make out is ‘God, Richie, why are you so stupid!’ </p><p>He glares at me snorting about halfway through his rants, I think he’s talking about the glasses now. It’s a bit clearer. I can now make out Eddies eyes, they were always the best part of him. Well, the best part a stranger could see. </p><p>They always say your eyes are the window to your soul, with Eddie they’re the same. A light blue with clouds of grey that always looked the angriest when I got hurt. His face as a whole looked like an angry kitten but his eyes were the part that really made me scared. You could see his worry mixing with the anger making a terrible sense of dread deep in my stomach. </p><p>Though, getting thrown to the ground was a normal occurrence for most if not all of the losers, but it seemed to only be me who he was really worried about. Maybe it was my once stupidly skinny structure or maybe something else. I think that those questions will never get answered. </p><p>The memory fades into a different one. I’m frantically looking around the kissing bridge, trying to find out if anyone could see me. I turn back to a half draw R and a heart.</p><p>I remember what happened today. I think this is when I just accepted I should just bury my sexuality. Stuff it 6 feet under so no one, not even I, could find it. That didn’t work. I finish the R but hesitate and look around only more time. The streets are empty, a quiet summer day. </p><p>I see a R that looks vaguely familiar. As if I know the handwriting, as if the person who wrote it knew me. Might have been Erica Kennedy, the girl in my math class I cheated off more than 10 times that school year. </p><p>Younger me turns back after a little and continues to write the letters. The R didn’t linger in his mind but it does in mine. Who wrote it? </p><p>The memory fades after the last of the E is done and young me is standing back up. A new one crops up. Eddie and I are sitting on my bed, laying next to each reading comic books. Eddie’s talking about how Hawkeye is a way better character than the Green Arrow or something. All the young me seemed to be able to think about how close we were. His leg was touching mine slightly, our shoulders snug together. My ace was probably red, or at least pink. </p><p>Was this after the bridge, his longer shaggy hair showed it. Along with his more grown face. High school. God, that was so fucking long ago. I went a version of my younger self but just like worse for the first 2 years, then I changed. </p><p>The big growth spurt the summer before 11th grade had something to do with that. I had to buy a new wardrobe so I went 'punk'. </p><p>It seems that it's probably like at the start of 12th being Eddie put down the comic and said ‘Miss. Jenson is a real bitch.’ and the black denim jacket with patches I’m wearing. Then he started talking about college and becoming an adult.</p><p>Being an adult is a scam. I was not an adult at 18.</p><p> I don’t think I ever really became the adult I thought I would be. Office job, wife, kids, a white picket fence home that would never feel like one. A bar I’d go to and drink my heart out because I hated my life.<br/>
I guess I didn’t really skip that last one.</p><p>The memory fades with my Mom yelling about dinner, and I’m sitting in the chair of my old college radio talk show studio. Someone says we’ll be one in 5 and I slip the headphones on. Something at the back of my mind is telling me someone would be proud, though I don’t remember their name. </p><p>They seem to be a distant memory. A person long forgotten. A person I wanted to remember.</p><p>I brushed it off and the show started. I open and talk, my own jokes and song recommendations. Something I had long dismissed for stealing others jokes and never having a real opinion of my own. I miss him, I want that Richie back. He was a better person. Maybe he could have saved Eddie.</p><p>The memory fades at the first break. It fades to my first show in New York before coming back to Derry. The crowd laughed as I told a joke I didn’t come up with and I felt sick. I still feel sick. The guilt is eating at me. I make another and they laugh again. I take a drink to keep from spilling the food I had for dinner. </p><p>Why did I do this to myself? </p><p>The show ends and they all clap. I walk out and catch a peak of the front seats. A larger lady sits next to a person with a face so familiar. I recognize him as Eddie now. He looks so bored. The woman next to him looks annoyed at most, chewing his ear off about the show most likely.</p><p>I didn’t take a second look then. I wish I had. </p><p>It fades and I’m in the Neitbolts house; Fuck. Eddie’s over me telling me he’s done it.<br/>
I want to grab him and throw him.<br/>
I want to save him.<br/>
But this is only a memory and things play out the exact same.</p><p>Eddie's blood drips from his mouth onto my glasses when he says ‘Richie’.</p><p>Bloody Cracked Glasses are stained with tears as Eddie dies in my arms.</p><p>Bloody Cracked Glasses slip down my nose as they pull me from his body.</p><p>Bloody Cracked Glasses shook slightly as the house crashed down. </p><p>The blood washes off as I dip my face under the water, but it stays in the cracks.</p><p>Bloody Cracked Glasses are dropped in the trash replaced with new ones. </p><p>The Bloody Cracked Glasses are taken out of the trash and broken even more.</p><p>Pieces of Bloody Cracked Glasses sit on the floor of my motel room. </p><p>They’re wet with tears again. </p><p>I wake up slowly. The morning light peaking through shitty blinds. I pick up my phone to check the time and it's 8:30. It’s 8:30 am the day before. 8:30 am the day Eddie’s supposed to die. </p><p>The once Bloody Cracked Glasses sit on the nightstand. Waiting to be worn. To be cracked. To be bloodied. </p><p>Maybe never to be. Maybe this time, there will be no blood.</p>
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